


If You Lead Me

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, sympathetic Mary Morstan, you know Mary shipped it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9274058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Enough time has passed since Mary's death that John is finally ready to start a new relationship. With Sherlock, he hopes. But given Sherlock's stated aversion to romantic entanglements, John is a bit worried about being rejected, and doesn't know how to proceed. Fortunately, there's someone who can help him along.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is now available in Japanese thanks to [ushiro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ushiro/profile): <https://www.pixiv.net/novel/show.php?id=8571721>

John hadn't heard from Mary in ages. Hadn't needed to. He still thought about her, every day. Still kept their wedding picture on display in the living room, so Rosie would see her when she bobbled about in her bouncer and hesitantly pulled herself to her feet using the furniture as props. He even kept the last voicemail Mary had left on his phone, to listen to when he needed to hear her voice. But that was the only time he heard her voice, now. He didn't hallucinate that she was there anymore, didn't hold lengthy conversations with her in his head, didn't even pretend that she was in the room so he wouldn't feel alone. Until today.

He'd made it to Baker Street all right—that part was normal, after all. It was Thursday, one of Mrs. Hudson's babysitting days, and John took the tube there after work just like he always did. He knew Sherlock was home—there was his coat, hanging on its peg inside the door in the front hall. All John had to do was go upstairs and talk to him, like he'd planned. But...but maybe it would be better to go pick up Rosie first, say hi to Mrs. Hudson, offer again to pay her for watching the baby so often. Sherlock—Sherlock could wait. He was probably busy anyway, solving a case or contaminating the kitchen with one of his arcane experiments. 

"John." Mary appeared on the staircase leading up to Sherlock's flat. She had her arms crossed and that look that meant she wasn't joking around. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. Of course she would know about what he had—tentatively—planned, and of course she would have an opinion. But she wasn't really here. 

He opened his eyes. She was still there, though now she was standing a few feet in front of him, blocking the path to Mrs. Hudson's flat. She pointed up the stairs. "Go up there right now and tell him what you came to say."

John lowered his head and clenched both his hands, fists disappearing into sleeves of his coat. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. You've done much harder things."

"No. Not like this." He took a step toward her. He could walk right through her—he knew she wasn't there.

"Yes." She raised a hand as if to touch him, though she couldn't and didn't try—thank God his mind knew better than to pretend he could feel her touch, because if that happened he would have locked himself in his room with her shadow months ago and never come out. "It's the only way you'll be happy."

"What if—" He couldn't say it, not even in his head. What if he says no?

"Then you'll have an answer and you can move on," Mary said. Had her voice ever been so tender in real life? "But he won't say no."

"How can you know that?"

"Because I knew him. I know him. And I see him, and I see you, and I know. He won't say no." Mary was sitting in the armchair beneath the staircase now, leaning forward, legs crossed and hands folded over her knee. He could walk by her, if he wanted to. Walk by her and she would disappear and he would go in and say hello to Mrs. Hudson. He'd pick up Rosie and carry her upstairs and use her as a buffer between himself and Sherlock and everything would be fine, at least as fine as it had ever been.

"Mary," he said.

She stood again, and came close, closer than she had since she had died, though still not touching him. "John. I know. But this has been coming for a long time. Longer than I've even know you. It's been coming since the day you met him. You know it has."

"I—" 

"One of you has to make the first move. And he's never going to do it."

"Because he doesn't want to!" He'd said it out loud now, his real fear. Now maybe Mary would leave him alone.

"No." That soft voice again, the one that made him think she wasn't just a figment of his imagination, because he didn't have that kind of voice in his own head. "It's because he doesn't know how. You do. You have to do it."

He stared at her, at his wife, who was wearing the same outfit she had been on the day she'd died, on the day she'd saved Sherlock's life. His dead wife who was now telling him to go upstairs and finally find out if he and Sherlock could ever be more than they already were to each other. He couldn't do it.

"Come on," Mary said, and passed in front of him to start up the stairs, and he would've sworn he felt the breeze her body made as she passed. She put one hand out behind her, motioning him to follow. 

By the time he got to the top of the stairs, he was alone. Good. That was good. He didn't want Sherlock to notice him listening to a hallucinatory ghost. He rapped once on the door to the flat and then let himself in.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, rhythmically tapping an open switchblade against his knees and humming. He glanced over at John and then away again. "It's Thursday. She's with Mrs. H."

"I know." John said, and stepped all the way into the flat, swinging his arms as if this were a completely casual and ordinary visit. "I wanted to see if you were in."

"Of course I'm in. I'm always in when you pick up Rosie, and if I'm not I text you and let you know. I thought the random drug checks were over."

"What? They are," John said. Sherlock had been clean since the Culverton Smith debacle. John knew he was still an addict but he was also quite certain Sherlock knew he done enough damage to himself that time that he wasn't likely to dabble again anytime soon. 

"Then why are you acting all nervous and suspicious?" Sherlock sat up, closing the knife and putting it in the pocket of his dressing gown. At least he hadn't left it open on the coffee table—Friday was the day he watched Rosie, while Mrs. Hudson did the shopping. 

John gave him a smile; it was meant to put Sherlock at ease, but it felt too tight and he knew he'd done a bad job of it. "I'm not suspicious," he said. Nervous, yes. 

He glanced across the room and of course there was Mary, sitting on the desk with her feet on one of the chairs, though he'd never seen her in such a position in life. She tipped her chin down at him and raised her eyebrows. _Go on._

Go on. How? Small talk to lead up to it. "I talked to Molly today."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said, and slumped back on the sofa. "You talk to Molly nearly every day, I imagine."

"Yes. Well. I met her for lunch, you see."

"Mm. She only had salad. You should pay her more for the days she watches Rosie so she can afford more food."

"No. She's worried about gaining weight now that she's hit 35. And don't you say anything to her about it when you see her, hmm?"

Sherlock scowled. John could feel his gaze picking him apart, trying to deduce why he'd come up here without fetching Rosie first like he usually did. He didn't want to be deduced; if he was going to do this he wanted it to be on his terms. "Molly thinks I should start dating again."

"Does she?" Sherlock slid the knife out of his pocket again. 

"Yeah, she does."

"Well, she would know. Given her stellar dating history. Why don't you ask my brother for relationship advice instead?"

_Keep going._ John didn't look across the room, but he heard Mary's determined encouragement clearly.

"Molly's even offered to watch Rosie this Saturday evening if I want to take someone out."

The closed knife disappeared into Sherlock's fist. "How kind of her. Good thing for you, though, as I'm busy Saturday and unavailable to babysit."

_No he's not. Not yet._

"No, you're not," John said, and pressed on. "At first I told her no, how would I find someone I wanted to take out on a date that quickly?"

"However would you?" Sherlock grumbled, and raised his bare feet to the coffee table. "Aren't there random women at work and on the bus and the tube and walking down the street at this very moment? Maybe you should go outside and look for one right now."

"Nope." John stepped around the pile of magazines—those needed to get out of here now that Rosie was pulling herself up to try to walk. "I don't want to just date some random woman. I realize now I wouldn't be happy with someone like that. I wouldn't be happy with most people." 

He paused, waiting for Sherlock's next cutting remark, but none came. Mary was standing in the corner behind Sherlock now, and she nodded. He took a deep breath. "Mary...Mary wasn't some random person. And I can't say I was always happy with her. But she was almost what I needed. She was...more than most people." He didn't look at her, because he couldn't bear to see what expression he might've dreamed up for her now.

"Yes. Mary certainly was a handful. I'll give you that."

"You liked her," John said, and saw the quick grin Sherlock tried to hide. He stared at him until Sherlock finally nodded once in acknowledgement.

"Anyway," John went on. "Like I said, she was almost what I needed. But not quite. Because....."

Sherlock looked up when John didn't finish the sentence. "Yes?" He had set the knife on the table in front of him now.

John glanced once more to Mary, who was grinning and nodding and also fading away into the colors of the wallpaper behind her. He took a final deep breath and felt his body go steady and sure. "Sherlock, if you're really not busy this Saturday evening, would you like to go out on a date with me?"


	2. Chapter 2

Saturday evening, John dropped Rosie off at Molly's and then headed over to pick up Sherlock. After Sherlock had said yes to the date and John's heart rate had slowed enough for him to speak and understand speech, a somewhat awkward conversation had revealed that Sherlock seemed to consider going out to dinner mandatory first date etiquette. John had expected something a bit more crime-related, but he was more than happy to agree to a nice evening meal that wouldn't involve him having to cut up anyone else's food or clean up the floor afterwards.

Once he was alone in the car on his way to Baker Street, though, some of the worries he had been able to suppress up until now began to surface. He assumed that the date would involve more than just dinner—either he'd go back to Baker Street for a drink, or, more likely, they'd pick up Rosie so he could get her to bed and then spend some time together at John's place. That was what he wanted to do, at least. But what did Sherlock expect? What did he want? How was he supposed to find out? He couldn't do this alone—he needed more of Mary's advice.

He thought of her, wearing the outfit she'd worn on their first date, and sure enough, when he looked at the passenger seat she was there, in the flirty little sundress he'd liked so much, even though it was rather cool today.

"I really think you should be able to figure out how to end a first date, John. You certainly did okay with me. I stuck around."

"I know. But, it's Sherlock. What does he even want to do? I mean, if you believe what he says, he hasn't had much experience. Maybe none." John thought about it for a moment, biting at his lip. "Okay, so if it's his first time having sex I should let him top."

"Whoa boy, slow down." Mary was suddenly wearing a raincoat over her dress; she pulled it closed across her chest. "I know for a fact you don't usually go that far on a first date. Maybe just start with a little snogging and see where it goes?"

"I know. I wouldn't normally, but what if he wants to? I can't tell him no. I've never been able to tell him no."

"John, do you want to have anal sex with Sherlock?" 

John looked over at his dead wife and then back at the road he was driving on. "Yes. Eventually. Probably not tonight."

"Well, I'm quite certain he won't want to move that fast, either. But if he does." He could tell she was looking him up and down and he felt ridiculously exposed, especially considering that he was fully clothed and alone in the car. "If he does, just lie back and relax. Use lots of lube. God, John, come on. Why is this even an issue? You've had things up your arse before."

He swallowed. "Nothing that big."

She turned toward him, bringing her right foot up to tuck under her, free of the constraints of being alive and having to wear a seatbelt. "Is he big? Have you seen him?"

"No. Mary. I don't know." He pulled to a stop at a traffic light and let his head droop toward the steering wheel for a moment. 

"I'd tell you to pretend it's just me and my finger, but honestly? I don't want to be there. I don't want you thinking about me. I don't want to come in between the two of you." Her voice was softer, the titillation of a moment ago gone. She turned to face forward again. "Light's green," she said, and disappeared from the car.

As he rounded the corner onto Baker Street, he saw that Sherlock was already outside waiting for him. He pulled up to the kerb and Mary reappeared briefly to say, "Though Christ, if I'd thought the two of you were both willing while I was alive, I definitely would've wanted to come in between the two of you."

He closed his eyes until he heard Sherlock open the car door, then looked over to find it was just the two of them, thankfully. John watched Sherlock climb in beside him—he was wearing his coat, of course, over one of his dark blue suits, the shirt beneath nearly the same color. John looked down at the outfit he'd pulled together and realized he had never dated anyone with the fashion sense of Sherlock. Had he underdressed? Did it matter? He'd almost worn a tie and then decided against it.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked, buckling himself in.

John chuckled as he pulled out into the street. "Can't you deduce it?"

Sherlock looked him over, though it seemed to take him longer than usual. John tried not to squirm beneath his gaze. "Oh, Italian," Sherlock said, and settled back into the seat with a grin. "Of course. Angelo's." 

"Er, no," John said, and immediately began to second-guess everything he had planned for the evening. Which admittedly wasn't that much beyond dinner—he pushed away the conversation he'd just had with Mary. "I mean, we can go there if you want to, but I made reservations at a new place I heard about. It is Italian, though."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Of course. You wanted to try something new. A new beginning." 

"Yeah, I guess," John said, and tried to chuckle again, though having heard Sherlock make a wrong deduction was disconcerting enough that the butterflies he had thought he had vanquished made a sudden reappearance.

"Go easy on him," Mary said, from the backseat, and John tried not to grimace. He'd thought she was gone. He wanted her to be gone. Didn't he? What good could possibly come from having her along on his date with Sherlock?

But she was right, he knew. Sherlock had gotten a fairly simple deduction wrong because he was even more nervous about this date than John. And John should've thought of taking him to Angelo's—the familiarity probably would've helped put him at ease. "We can go to Angelo's instead," he repeated.

"No, no." Sherlock waved his hand in the air. "You're dressed too nicely for Angelo's, anyway." He smiled at John. "That color really suits you, by the way."

John looked down at himself in surprise, then quickly returned his eyes to the road. "Thank you," he said, and risked a glance to the side. Sherlock was blushing. Sherlock Holmes had just complimented his appearance and was now blushing about it. Oh God, what had they gotten themselves into? He'd had no doubts that he wanted to do this, but he hadn't known it would make every interaction between the two of them so stilted.

Fortunately, they didn't have very far to go, and there was enough traffic at this hour that he was able to direct Sherlock's attention to the poor driving skills of everyone else on the road as a topic of conversation. By the time they got to the restaurant, John was feeling a bit more sure of himself again. Until they approached the building's entrance and John reached the door first.

"Yes," Mary hissed in his ear. "Hold the door for him. You asked him out, he accepted. He won't be insulted."

John trusted her and held the door and Sherlock tipped his chin down in acknowledgement as he swept past him, gloved hands in his pockets and coat collar turned up. Okay. He could do this.

He followed Sherlock in and watched him belittle first the maître d' and then their waitress. Yes. John could almost feel as if this were any other dinner—how many times had the two of them eaten out together over the years? But there were definite differences, ones he couldn't ignore. For one thing, after they'd given their order to the waitress, Sherlock didn't turn to look out the window or start monitoring any of the other diners because they held some essential clue for a case. He focused on John, instead, with an intensity that was a bit unsettling. John remembered what it had been like, back when they'd first known each other, how he'd stared at Sherlock and hung on his every word and praised him so frequently. The habit had lessened with time, but now Sherlock was doing it to him, and John found it both flattering and a little overwhelming.

"Don't think of it as a date," Mary said, and John wrinkled his forehead, trying not to look over Sherlock's shoulder at her. How else was he supposed to think of it, with Sherlock acting so strange?

"You need to put him at ease," she said. "And to do that, you need to relax first yourself. So stop thinking of this as something different and unusual. It's not." 

He couldn't help it—he had to look at her, to see if she was having him on. Sherlock noticed, of course, following John's line of sight to glance over his own shoulder and then look questioningly at John. John breathed a small laugh to try to cover it. "They're taking long enough with our food."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. He fiddled with his napkin and then looked at John. "I'm sure it will be excellent, though. Smells delicious, and everyone who's left since we got here appears quite full and satisfied. Very little left on anyone's plate."

John stared at him, trying to figure out what part of that statement had been sarcastic or backhanded. 

"John," Mary continued. She was kneeling on the floor next to him, arms resting on the table. She'd changed into a pair of jeans and a loose blouse. "I know you've both agreed this is your first date, but trust me. It's hardly even a full step past where you've always been with each other. You've been dating for years."

John inhaled and licked at his lower lip. Of course she was wrong, but he knew what she meant. It made all of the comments about being a couple he and Sherlock had gotten over the years a little more understandable. They hadn't been romantic, and maybe neither of them had wanted to be, or been ready to be, until now. But they'd been together, comfortable and relaxed and as close as two people could be without sharing a bed. He just needed to show Sherlock that none of that had changed, that he didn't need to pretend to be someone new just because John had asked him here tonight.

"Hey, Sherlock." John sipped at his water glass and paused, waiting for Sherlock to lose the false cheer and show his real face. He kicked at his foot under the table to speed it along.

"Ow." Sherlock shifted in his seat so his feet were out of easy kicking range. "What?" 

There he was. "This is not our first date, you know that, yeah?" John said. 

Sherlock sat up straight, pulling back in his chair, even farther away from John. "I—You—"

"No, no, no. It's a date, yes. But not our first one, all right?"

Sherlock cocked his head, waiting for an explanation; John could see the fear and confusion still in his eyes. He pushed both water glasses out of the way and put his hands out, face up, in the middle of the small table. "Some people would say we've been dating for years," he said, and waited for Sherlock's retort about people being idiots. 

It didn't come. Sherlock stared at him and John let him take his time, knowing he'd make the right deduction now. Finally, Sherlock nodded, shoulders softening. He put his fingers on top of John's, clearly still hesitant. "I think Mary might've had an objection or two to that."

John stroked his thumbs over the back of Sherlock's hands, feeling him relax beneath his touch. "Oh, she would definitely have had something to say about it. But you know what? I don't think she would've minded at all."


	3. Chapter 3

After dinner, they stopped at Molly's to pick up Rosie and then headed back to John's place. Once they had bundled Rosie into the backseat and were on the road, John exhaled in relief. "That was a lot less awkward than I feared."

"Hmm?" Sherlock had relaxed as the meal went on, and now seemed quite at ease.

"Molly," John said. "She seemed happy enough when I told her our plans for tonight, but I was afraid seeing us together might be too much for her."

"She's seen us together literally hundreds of times, John."

"Yeah, but. You know."

"She's over him," Mary said, and John gritted his teeth together. He hadn't meant to conjure her again. Granted, she had helped substantially with dinner, but it was somewhat disturbing that in his innermost thoughts he believed himself incapable of functioning without her. He'd been fine on his own these last few months, after all. He craned his neck, trying to peer into the backseat through the rearview mirror. Yes, she was there, though she wasn't paying any attention to him. She was bent over Rosie's car seat, not making faces or silly sounds or interacting with her as she had in real life, just watching her. John flicked his eyes away. It was bad enough that Rosie would never get to know her mother firsthand; he didn't need to dwell on how Mary would never know her daughter, either. 

He didn't hear anything else from the backseat on the way home, though every time he glanced in the mirror she was still there. He was afraid Rosie might fall asleep in the car and then refuse to sleep later, but she stayed awake for the whole drive. Of course she did—she was watching her mother, he thought. No. Nope. He was the only crazy one here, thank you very much. Rosie would grow up stable and loved and sure of herself, never needing to hallucinate dead people for comfort.

He had to park down the block, so he let Sherlock and Rosie out in front of the house. When he joined them at the front door, Sherlock was bouncing her on his hip and she was giggling, not anywhere near sleepy. "That doesn't look like bedtime behavior," John said. 

"You should give me a key to your house," Sherlock replied.

"I should," John agreed. "Though I'm a bit surprised you didn't just pick the lock."

"What, and then have to listen to you lecture about setting a good example for Rosie?" Sherlock swung her around to face John and she let out a shriek of delight. John's ideas about what the rest of the evening might hold were abruptly replaced by the prospect of having to spend hours coaxing a one-year-old to lie down and close her eyes. 

"Don't worry. I'll get her to sleep," Sherlock said, as they went into the house.

"Right. Because that's so easy to do."

"He's good at it," Mary said, and John resolutely shut the door in her face.

But as it turned out, Sherlock was good at it—though he'd never put her to bed for the night before, the practice he'd gained at naptime on the days he watched her seemed to have paid off. "Nothing to it," he said, emerging from the nursery looking even more smug than normal.

"Okay, you're hired," John said, as he poured two glasses of scotch from one of the bottles in the cabinet next to the sofa. "Be here every night at 8 pm."

"If you want me to," Sherlock said, and then seemed to realize there could be a deeper meaning behind the exchange as he met John's eyes. They both looked away from each other—John's gaze flicked to the edge of the kitchen, where Mary stood. She didn't say anything, though, just smiled and waved her hands at him, motioning toward the sofa.

He handed Sherlock a glass and then took a seat, raising an eyebrow to indicate he should join him. Sherlock did; John sipped at the scotch and reminded himself that they had sat close together on sofas many times in the past.

Sherlock seemed to be under the impression that this was something new, though. And it was. It was. But that didn't mean it was something to be afraid of. He didn't even need Mary to tell him that. He turned slightly toward Sherlock, who was sitting stock still, facing forward, untouched drink in his hand. John swallowed down his own nerves and tried to think of what to say but before he could, Sherlock blurted out, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

John set his glass down on the coffee table. "You're not supposed to do anything. We can do whatever we want. Whatever you want."

Sherlock nodded but otherwise didn't move. John was at a loss. He didn't want to force anything on him—maybe Sherlock didn't want any sort of physical relationship at all. Maybe he just wanted to eat dinner as a couple. They should've talked about it, maybe he should—

"Oh my God. John. Just kiss him already," Mary said. 

John inhaled sharply but didn't look over at her. Apparently she was going to have to talk him through the rest of the evening, which felt unfair to Sherlock. John should be focused solely on him. But Mary was right. Of course she was right.

He reached over and took Sherlock's glass out of his hand, letting his left knee brush against Sherlock's right. Sherlock startled at the contact, looking down at the spot where their legs touched. When he looked back up, John quickly gauged his expression—hesitant, yes, but not reluctant. Just unsure of himself. John lifted his chin and leaned toward him, expecting more hesitation, but Sherlock met him halfway. 

Their first kiss. It was nice, as kisses went, but not the most intimate. Sherlock didn't pull away though, so John knew they could do better. He raised his left hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and opened his lips slightly. After a moment, Sherlock did the same. Much better. They both tasted of onions and tomato sauce from dinner, and Sherlock had topped his pasta with hot pepper. His mouth was bigger than John's, and John suddenly knew that he could lose himself in kissing Sherlock if he wanted to, but he still needed to make sure he wasn't moving too fast. He pulled away so he could take a proper breath. 

"You all right?" he asked; Sherlock had twisted his body away a bit after the kiss was broken. 

Sherlock nodded, then cleared his throat and said, "Okay, in the interest of full disclosure. I've had an erection for the last two hours and you've just made it exponentially worse."

"Ah." John scooted back a bit. "All right. Good to know." He licked at his bottom lip, still tasting the spicier sauce that Sherlock had eaten for dinner. "So what do we do about it then?"

He heard a giggle come from the direction of the kitchen, but Sherlock just stared at him, unblinking. "I'm not the one with the extensive dating history."

"Right. Um." John laced his fingers together atop his thigh, still deeply uncertain how far he should try to take this first time.

"You'll figure it out, John," Mary said. From the corner of his eye, he saw her stride out of the kitchen, though she headed for the staircase rather than towards them. He blinked and turned his head to look at her but she was gone. 

Right. He turned back to Sherlock. He could endure a minute or two of uncomfortable conversation if it ended with the two of them in agreement. "I do have experience. But you have never—?"

"I've done a number of things, with a number of people. Just not...with anyone I cared much about."

"Oh. So it's always been for a case."

Sherlock made a seesawing motion with his hands. "Or something like that."

John knew that Sherlock was clean, so he was going to pretend all of his experience had come from cases. "Like Janine."

"Janine. Ah. She and I, well. We—I guess it would depend upon the actual definition you're using—"

"Okay, stop. I don't need to know all the details. Let's just." He breathed in and out. "We'll kiss more, and see what happens." He leaned forward, and this time set his hand on Sherlock's thigh. "If you're uncomfortable, we could relieve a bit of pressure like this." He slid his hand up along his hip and over to the button of his trousers.

Sherlock gasped and curved himself forward. "You're making more pressure."

"I know," John said, and resumed kissing. He didn't move his hand, letting it stay against Sherlock's waistband until Sherlock put his own hand on John's wrist and tugged it down. John let him unfasten the button and zip, then brought his hand back when Sherlock moved his own away in clear invitation. He slipped his fingers inside Sherlock's pants and stroked down once, fingers catching slightly on his bare skin. "Is this okay?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock nodded frantically. "If I can do it to you, as well."

"Oh God, yes." John moved away enough so he could undo his own trousers, pushing them down as far as he could while still sitting and then adjusting himself so he poked through the fly of his pants. He glanced at Sherlock's face and Sherlock gave him a slow, filthy grin and then hooked his right foot around John's ankle to guide him closer.

John draped his leg over Sherlock's thigh so they were as close as they could possibly be. Sherlock took him in hand, making a deep noise, nearly a growl, as he closed his long fingers. John's whole body tightened and surged in anticipation and he opened his mouth for another kiss, but not before he risked a final glance across the room. There was no sign of Mary, save for the picture at the bottom of the stairs. John tipped his head in acknowledgement to a woman who wasn't there and then turned his focus, mind and body, back to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> I have a lot of other stories, both with and without Mary, depending on your interests--feel free to check them out!


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